Senses
by Jarald
Summary: A few moments at the Hyperion from Connor's POV. Not really connected to the overall story.


Senses  
  
Summary: Connor's thoughts one day at the Hyperion. Naturally, Connor's POV.  
  
Setting: Doesn't fit in all that well anywhere, timeline-wise. Probably best before 'Apocalypse Nowish', though. Just one of those quiet days between storms.  
  
Rating: PG-13 for some strong language.  
  
'Ships: Hints of Fred/Connor.  
  
On to the main event…  
  
~~~~~~~~~  
  
I don't know why I'm here today, why I'm not at the loft in which I sleep, or out hunting, or whatever. Not the people, surely. Gunn can't seem to stand me, Lorne just seems confused, and I think Fred might actually be a bit afraid. She smells of it, sometimes.  
  
Fear. It has a scent, I know. It has a scent just like all the other emotions: hot, dry anger, spiky jealousy, even that strange smooth scent when people throw around the word 'love'.   
  
Everyone has a scent, and you can track them by theirs, if you're good. No-one here is all that good at hiding, though. All those soaps and fragrances they use to cover up their scents only do so much good, and they leave a trail all their own.   
  
Gunn's standing by the desk, chatting away with Lorne. Every now and again, they cast a glance my way. They probably want me to leave. Heh. Maybe that's why I'm here today – because they'd rather I wasn't. I can smell the confusion on them.  
  
I feel someone's gaze and I turn to look. Fred. I meet her gaze, just to see how long it'll take her to look away, but I don't get the chance to find out, for all of a sudden sight fades, washed out by the sudden rush of sensation elsewhere. I can feel the air moving across my skin, gently lifting each hair. The slightest sounds are suddenly huge, terribly loud – Gunn and Lorne's conversation would be simple to eavesdrop on, if only I could focus on the words.  
  
Sensory spikes. I hate them, hate the weakness they represent. They could get me killed someday, when my senses flare up suddenly and all of a sudden I can't think straight, can't even see or necessarily hear, as all my other senses flare up to sudden, brutal sensitivity.  
  
After a moment, even the other senses fade out, after a fashion, drowned by scent. Normally, I can track by scent. That's nothing. I can't see or hear anymore. A thousand smells fill my nostrils, and I can't escape. There's so many that it hurts, so strong and vivid and sharp. I can smell everything on Fred, from the remaining hints of dinner (chicken, and spices, so sharp they blur together, unidentifiable) to the whisper of Gunn's earthy musk from when he brushed against her hours ago.  
  
Fred must think I'm staring, now. She doesn't know I'm blind, that I can't see, only smell. Nothing else has enough force to break through the wall of scents. I manage to stumble outside, moving by memory alone, but it's no better there, only worse.  
  
Los Angeles by night, and all its reek. There would no doubt be tears rolling down my face if I wasn't holding on so tight to control. I want to just curl up into a ball and beg for it to go away, but there's no way I'll do that in front of the others. I do, sometimes, in bed when the sounds grow too loud, so that even the patter of mice or the movement of ants is painful.  
  
Fred's coming closer, her scent filling my nostrils more and more as I beg for this to recede, to fade again into normality. Finally, it does, leaving me with the smell of her hair and the light touch of one hand on my arm, skin just barely meeting skin.  
  
She asks if I'm all right as vision returns. I'm fine. I'm fine! I pull my arm away roughly. She looks hurt, smells… tender? Warm? I can't describe this… it's new, strange. She smells hurt, too, of course, but I turn away as I hear Angel coming down the steps.  
  
The sun's set.  
  
Time to hunt.  
  
Finis.  
  
Author's note: Has anybody else noticed how little Connor fiction bothers mentioning his senses? Clearly, they're better than human norm – most people can't track by scent, or even recognize personal scents consciously. Our noses just aren't that keen. Most fiction about him focuses on his strength, or speed, or what have you, but I feel his senses are something that ought to be taken into account more often. After all, they define the way we see the world, do they not?  
  
Au revoir,  
  
Jarald. 


End file.
